The Old Blue Line: A Joanna Brady Novella (Joanna Brady Mysteries) (3 page)

“I had no idea.”

I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother had known all about it. I think I mentioned earlier that she and Faith had always been chummy, and it chapped my butt that the two of them stayed friends, especially after what Faith did to me.

“You took your cell phone to Vegas?”

I noticed the sudden shift in direction. “Of course,” I answered.

“Did you use it?”

“Some, but on Saturday afternoon I noticed it was running out of battery power and realized I had forgotten the charger back here in Peoria. I called the restaurant, let them know that my cell phone was out of commission. I told them that if they needed to reach me, they’d have to call the Talisman or the people in charge of the convention. At the convention, they post messages on a bulletin board near the registration desk. After that, I shut my cell off and left it off until after I got back home.”

I’m not stupid. I could see clear as day where all this was going. Jamison thought I had shut off my phone so it wouldn’t ping anywhere near the crime scene. That’s how the cops are able to catch the occasional killer these days—by following the bad guy’s cell phone signals. That way they can place the crook at the scene of the crime without his ever having made a call.

“My phone records will bear that out,” I added.

“I’m sure they will. So did you use the phone in your room to make any calls?”

“No, not that I remember. Besides, who would I have called? Other than the people I met at the convention, I didn’t know anyone in Vegas.”

“What about the pay phone down by the swimming pool at the Talisman? Did you use that?”

“If there was a pay phone there, I didn’t notice, and I certainly didn’t use it.”

“Who all knew you were going to that particular convention?” This was the first time the other cop, Detective Shandrow, had asked a question.

“The people at the restaurant knew I was going to Vegas,” I corrected. “I doubt I mentioned anything to them about the convention. What I was doing in Vegas wasn’t any of their business. You know the old saying, ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ ”

My attempt at humor fell flat, at least as far as Detective Shandrow was concerned. He grimaced. “So you’re saying that none of the people who work for you are aware that you’re building up to writing the great American novel?” His sarcasm was duly noted.

“It’s not something I talk about. People don’t like it when they think you’re standing with a foot in both worlds. They get nervous. I have a good crew working here at the restaurant, and I need to keep all of them.”

“Unless you decide to sell,” Jamison said.

That took me aback. The truth was, for months there had been considerable interest from a company hot to trot to build a hotel in order to cash in on Peoria’s burgeoning Spring Training gold mine. The developer, a guy named Jones, had bought up most of the real estate on either side of me, purchasing the buildings on the cheap from the landlords who had raised the rents enough that their longtime small business tenants—engaged in a life-or-death struggle with big box stores—could no longer afford to renew their leases. Their former landlords were only too happy to make a quick buck and go on to bigger and better things. Now, months later, I remained the sole holdout.

Grandma Hudson was nobody’s fool. When she bought the Roundhouse, she bought the whole thing—both the building and the parking lot, right along with the previous owner’s collection of model trains. Once I came on board, I bought more trains, and better ones, too. Unlike some of the other businesses in the neighborhood, I still had a going concern. I also didn’t have a money-grubbing landlord trying to bust my balls in order to get me to leave. I hadn’t taken the bait at the developer’s first offer or even at his second or third.

So yes, I was hoping to sell eventually—at my price—but it wasn’t something I discussed out in the open. For one thing, if my crew figured out that I might sell, they’d be gone before the next dinner service, and I’d find myself stuck being chief cook and bottle washer along with having to do everything else. Still, the fact that Jamison and Shandrow knew about my possible real estate dealings meant the two detectives had been hanging around Peoria asking questions for some time, long before they set foot in my restaurant early that afternoon to order their two bottomless cups of coffee.

“Who told you I might be interested in selling?”

Jamison shrugged. “Word gets around,” he said.

“I’ve had some inquiries,” I acknowledged. “So far there haven’t been any offers out there that I couldn’t walk away from. If someone’s going to buy the business out from under me, they’re going to have to make it worth my while.”

“I notice you have a pay phone back there by the restrooms,” Jamison said.

This odd observation was completely out of context, but it was also true. Even though pay phones are thin on the ground these days, the Roundhouse has one, and I do my best to keep it in good working order.

“A few of the planned communities around here aren’t big on watering holes for the old guys who still like to tipple a bit,” I explained. “Some of my regulars are disabled vets who arrive in those handicapped dial-a-van things or else by cab because they’re too old to drive or their physical condition makes it impossible. The younger generation may have terminal cell-phone-itis, but not all of the older generation does.

“So yes, I have a pay phone back there so those guys can call a cab or a van when it’s time for them to go home. I can also tell you that having a pay phone on the premises is a pain in the neck. When this one breaks down—which it does with astonishing regularity—and stops refunding the change it’s supposed to spit back out, people tend to get crabby. They want me to replace their missing change, and most of the time I do. I figure I can afford to lose seventy-five cents easier than some of them can.”

“Whoa,” Detective Shandrow observed with an ill-concealed sneer. “You’re a regular philanthropist.”

I wasn’t too keen on Jamison, but I liked his partner even less.

“You usually work days, then?” Jamison asked.

“Mostly,” I said, “I generally do the day-shift bartending, but because I’m the owner, I pitch in as needed—including serving as short-order cook on occasion, as I did today. I’m here most of the time anyway because I live right upstairs.”

“If you don’t mind,” Shandrow interjected, “I think I’ll go use the facilities.”

More than ready to be rid of the jerk, I wouldn’t have minded if he’d walked straight out the door. He eased his somewhat ungainly body out of the booth and then made for the corridor that led to the restrooms while Jamison put away his notebook and pencil.

“So that’s it, then?” I asked.

“For the time being,” he told me. “Like I said earlier, we just needed to ask you a couple of questions. Now we’ll get out of your hair.”

That was pretty laughable in itself because I don’t have any hair. When my hairline started receding, I went for the Kojak look and shaved it all off. Jamison stood up just as Shandrow emerged from the hallway. Jamison was between us, and Shandrow was looking at his partner rather than at his reflection in the mirror. I caught the small secretive nod he sent in Jamison’s direction. Since neither of them was looking at me at that precise moment, I doubt they realized I had seen it. That nod told me that Detective Shandrow had not only gone down the hall looking for something, he had found it.

“What’s the deal with the trophy case and all the photos back there in the corridor?” he asked. “You got yourself one of those dimwit kids?”

I don’t have any kids of my own, but I do coach a Special Olympics team, the Roundhouse Railers. When one of my athletes comes into the diner, they always eat for free, and they always want to go visit the trophy case in the restroom hallway. Hearing Shandrow call those sweet folks dimwits left me wanting to punch the man’s lights out.

“Those are my athletes.” I told him in tight-lipped fury. “And no, I don’t have any children of my own, dim or otherwise.”

They got the message, Jamison most likely more than Shandrow, and left then, while I stayed where I was. This wasn’t a social call. It wasn’t my job to see them out. Besides, I was so pissed at Detective Shandrow that I was afraid I’d say something to the man that I’d end up regretting. I was still sitting in the booth when Amanda came over and wiped down the table.

“Who were those assholes, and what the hell was that all about?” she demanded, both hands on her hips. “Were they from down the street?” She jerked her head in the direction of the police academy campus.

“No such luck,” I said. “It turns out my ex-wife got murdered, and they’re operating on the assumption that I did it.”

“Right,” she said. “When would you have time?”

“That’s what I told them.”

“You want something to drink?”

“No,” I said. “Not right now. I need to take a run up the road and have a chat with an old friend of mine.”

By “up the road” I meant up Highway 60 to Sun City. And by “old friend” I mean old—a spry eighty-two, or, as Tim O’Malley himself, liked to say, “Older than dirt.” Tim had retired from the Chicago PD after living and working—much of it as a beat cop—through far too many Chicago winters. He and his wife Minnie had retired to Sun City and, through mere coincidence, happened to own the house next to the one my grandparents bought a couple years later. Tim and Minnie were there for my grandmother when Grandpa Hudson was sick and dying, just as, years later, Grandma was there for Tim during Minnie’s slow decline through the hell of Alzheimer’s.

And after that? It’s difficult to call a pair of octogenarians boyfriend and girlfriend, but that’s what they were. Grandma told me once that Tim was far too young for her to consider marrying. They never lived together, either. After all, propriety had to be maintained. Even so, they were good for each other, and over time Tim and I became friends if not pals. Right that minute, I needed some sage advice, and Tim’s house was where I went looking for it.

He listened to the whole story in silence. When I finished, he shook his head. “Aggie always said that Faith woman was trouble,” Tim commented. “She was of the opinion that anything that looks too good to be true probably is too good to be true. Unfortunately, Faith turned out to be far worse than any of us could have expected.”

“I should have expected it,” I muttered. “When the gorgeous blonde walks into the room and sweeps the short bald guy off his feet, anyone with half a brain should have figured out something wasn’t right. By the time I did, it was far too late.”

“Okay, then,” Tim said, nodding impatiently. “Enough about her. Let’s get back to those cops. Did they come right out and say you were a suspect? Did they read you your rights?”

“No,” I answered. “Jamison insisted I was just a ‘person of interest,’ but I find that hard to believe. They must have been doing some serious poking around in order to learn that I’m considering selling the Roundhouse to that hotel developer. That isn’t exactly common knowledge.”

Tim nodded again. It was common knowledge to him because I had confided in Tim O’Malley about that, but I hadn’t told anyone else.

“How long have these bozos been in town, again?” he asked.

“They didn’t say.”

“Vegas is a long way from here. It doesn’t seem likely that they would have sent two detectives down here to question you if they thought it was some kind of wild goose chase. They must have a pretty good reason to suspect you.”

“Yes, but I didn’t do it,” I insisted. “I had no idea Faith was living in Vegas.”

“What about the guy she ran off with?”

“My old pal Rick? She evidently shed him, too, somewhere along the way. I have no idea where he is now.”

“What’s his name?”

“Austin—Richard Austin.”

“He’s the guy who stole your wife and your money?”

“I don’t think he stole Faith. She probably pulled the wool over his eyes, the same way she did mine, but between the two of them, they both stole my money.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“Over a million,” I said.

Tim whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“It is, but once it’s gone, it’s gone. That’s one thing I’m grateful to Grandma Hudson for—she helped me see that it was just money, and water under the bridge besides. In order to get on with my life, I needed to let it go, and I did.”

“Cops won’t see it that way,” Tim cautioned. “Those guys are probably thinking you’re still pissed about it.”

“Turns out I am still pissed,” I corrected. “But not enough to kill her over it. I’m not the murdering type. So what should I do, call a lawyer?”

“Do you have one?”

“No, but . . .”

“You see,” Tim said, “here’s where those dicks have you by the short hairs. If you don’t call a lawyer you look stupid, and if you do call a lawyer, you look guilty.”

“What should I do, then?”

Tim considered for a long time before he answered. “For right now, go back to work. Don’t stress over this. Stress is bad for your health. Let me see what I can do. I may have been off the force for a long time, but ex-cops have some pull that most civilians don’t. I’ll get back to you.”

He glanced at his watch. He didn’t say,
Here’s your hat; what’s your hurry,
but I got the message and left. When I got back to the Roundhouse, the parking lot was full and so was the bar. The white-haired, blue-plate special folks, sporting their walkers and canes, were wandering into the dining room. That was the other thing I didn’t like about selling the place. Any hotel that might replace it—full of polished granite floors and stylish modern furniture—wouldn’t be the same kind of comfortable gathering place this one had become for that particular demographic. The new establishment on the block might be slick and cool and hip, but it wouldn’t do what the Roundhouse did—remind people of places back home.

I went upstairs, showered, changed into clean clothes, and came back downstairs to the bar to lend a hand. Some of the golfers, a little the worse for wear several hours later, were still there. I told Amanda to collect their car keys and make sure they called cabs before they left. That’s when it hit me—all the earlier talk about pay phones. Shandrow hadn’t gone down the hall to spend time looking at the Roundhouse Railers’ trophy case. He had been in search of the bar’s pay phone. I went down the corridor and looked at it myself. I’d had them install it low enough on the wall so it’s wheelchair accessible. I stared at it for a long time, but the phone wasn’t talking, at least not to me.